This Day
by dust on the wind
Summary: The wait is finally over, but the fight has just begun. A response to the D-Day commemoration proposed by Abracadebra.
1. Rise

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story._

_Cover image: Gustave Courbet (1819-1877), "Sea Coast In Normandy"_

* * *

"Mind if I walk you home, Miss Monet?"

With something like a jolt, Tiger came back to earth. She glanced at the young man who had just spoken, then looked skyward again. The plane had already passed overhead, and was droning its way towards the Channel, and no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't will herself aboard.

_I should be there_, she thought.

"Miss…?" said Lieutenant Greenwood.

Tiger sighed softly. "Nobody calls me Miss Monet."

"Mademoiselle, then," he responded, his cheerful humour undented. He knew exactly what she meant. She hadn't been Marie-Louise Monet since France had fallen. Sometimes she didn't even remember what kind of a girl Marie-Louise was.

She turned a steady gaze on him. "When we first met, you were not so formal."

"Aye, well, that were different, weren't it?" he said innocently, though his North Yorkshire pattern of speech had broadened considerably. "When a man's hiding out from t' Gestapo in a cellar in Düsseldorf with a bullet hole in his leg, he's bound to forget t'social niceties. Nowt wrong wi' it, is there?"

The grin gave him away; that absurdly asymmetrical smile which Tiger, thinking in French rather than the dull English equivalent, always defined in her own mind as _de guingois_. It drew a reluctant twinkle from her.

"We were meant to fly out tonight, you and I," she said.

"I know. Bit of a letdown, in't it?" He looked up, as another plane approached. "Still, it's only a few days' delay, and all things considered…" He trailed off. No explanation had been given for their mission being postponed, but they both knew the reason why they were not, even now, parachuting into Germany. A larger event had taken precedence, an operation which wasn't to be mentioned by name. Not yet.

"I'll see you back to your billet," he went on, after a pause.

"You need not. It is not far."

"I know, but the pubs have closed, and there's some rough customers out and about. It wouldn't do if you ran into trouble."

She drew a short, impatient breath. "Because I could not be expected to take care of it myself. Charlie, _mon__ vieux_, do you have any idea what I have been doing for the last four years?"

"Aye, I do. It's not you I'm worried about," Greenwood chuckled. "After seeing how you sorted out those two German soldiers in Düsseldorf, I'm worried about what you'll do to any drunken Englishman unlucky enough to cross your path."

Tiger bit her lips together, unsure whether he was joking or not. She stole a quick look at him. "If that is true, perhaps it should be me who sees you safely home."

"Oh, Mademoiselle, that's sweet of you, but what would my old mum say?"

Somewhere in the distance a further flight could be heard. Tiger narrowed her eyes, searching above the rooftops. She knew by the pitch of the engines, they were not bombers. "Pathfinders?"

"No, they'll be well on their way by now. If I had to guess, I'd say paratroopers."

It was definite, then. She hadn't quite believed it until now. A fierce anger rose in her heart: at herself, at the friends who had sent her to England just at this time, and even at Charlie Greenwood. He had no right to take it so calmly. But mostly at herself.

"I should be there." She couldn't help it, the words had to find voice.

He took her arm, and started walking. "I know. You want to do your bit, now the big day's arrived. I'm not best pleased meself at being out of it, as it happens. But it's no good getting aeriated about it. Even if we had made it onto the pitch before the kick-off, we'd be at the wrong end of the field. We're supposed to be on our way to Hammelburg, which is a long way from the coast."

"If I had stayed …"

"Don't be daft. You'd have been no use to anyone if you were dead, which you would have been. Don't forget what Shakespeare said – _she who is in battle slain_, or summat like that."

"Oh, I know," said Tiger. "But we have waited so long for this. Charlie, I would give my life, and die joyfully, if I could just do one thing, one little thing…"

They walked in silence for a while. The sound of the planes was almost continuous now, though distant, and the weight of it lay heavy on Tiger's heart. _Men going to die_, she thought, _and I should be there..._

"It's not such a little thing, when you think about it," said Greenwood at last. "I mean, this is just the start of it. There's a long way to go yet, lass. Trust me, you'll have plenty of work to do, without having to storm the beaches. Any road, it's the way it is, and we can't do owt except the best we know how."

Up ahead the street curved to the left. Tiger's eyes followed the line of lamp-posts, standing like ghostly sentries, dark silhouettes in the light of the full moon. The indistinct shape of a man could be seen, leaning against one of them, swaying slightly back and forth as he gazed at the sky. Getting closer, she realised he was singing. She couldn't make out the words, slurred as they were by alcohol and emotion and an accent from further north than her companion had ever set foot; but the melody, delivered on pitch even though the voice was hoarse and rough around the edges, caught her where she least expected it. She didn't know the song, and yet it felt familiar, like a childhood memory.

"Now, that's one I've not heard for a while," murmured Greenwood. "Me granddad used to sing it when he'd had a few. Never yet heard it sung sober." He approached the singer: "You all right there, mate?"

The man reeked of beer and cigarettes. He had the crumpled, unkempt look of one who had been drinking steadily for far too long. He peered vaguely at them, then hiccoughed, and waved one hand towards the sky. "_...to memory now I can't recall_," he crooned softly.

"You want to get yourself home," said Charlie. "It's late to be out on the street. Off you go, and watch out crossing the roads."

The singer straightened up, gave an elaborate bow, almost pitched over, then recovered. "Good night," he pronounced; then slipping into song again: "_...and joy be with you all…_"

He staggered off, still singing. Greenwood took Tiger's arm again. "Well, he's twigged it, hasn't he? I wonder how many people all over England are looking at the sky tonight."

They went a little further, both lost in their own thoughts. Tiger, by force of habit, kept hers to herself, but after a little while she heard Charlie's voice, soft and low-pitched: _But since it falls unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not… I'll gently rise, and softly call…_

"Don't." Just for a moment, she couldn't bear to hear it.

He didn't say a word, but his hand closed over hers. He, too, wanted to rise; perhaps not with the same deep, compelling need which had driven her on through these four long years, but enough. Tiger blinked back the tears which had risen to her eyes, and looked to the sky.

"You are right, Charlie," she said softly. "It is the way it is. But my turn to rise, and yours, will come soon. And when it does…"

"Then joy be with us all."

Tiger gave him a smile; and overhead, the planes flew on.

* * *

_Notes:_

_The song is "The Parting Glass", traditional Irish or Scottish, nobody seems sure. If you want to listen to a particularly beautiful version, try the Spooky Men's Chorale on YouTube._

_This story assumes that "Operation Tiger" took place not long before D-Day. _

_Greenwood is mistaken. It's not Shakespeare, it's Oliver Goldsmith. _


	2. Play Up!

"_Then will he strip his sleeves, and show his scars, and say...and say_…"

The speaker paused, apparently rummaging around in the jumbled glory box of his memory for the conclusion of the stirring speech with which he was regaling his companions. Or, at least, the men sitting close enough to hear him. There was too much noise for the rest of the cohort to make out what he was saying.

The unlucky listeners waited in mute suffering. During the short time since Group Captain Crittendon had transferred into the paratroop brigade, they had learned that any piece of poetry he tried to quote from memory would inevitably take a detour towards the Valley of Death into which the six hundred had ridden. This time, however, the man on his left was able to avert this fate: "_These wounds I had on Crispin's Day_, sir."

"I beg your pardon?" Crittendon gave him a puzzled look, turning his entire upper body to do so, since he was not terribly flexible. On all counts – rank, fitness, competence – he didn't belong on this operation, in any capacity whatsoever. Some of the men had a theory that his participation had been devised by the top brass as part of an elaborate and desperate murder plot. In fact, as he repeatedly told anyone who would listen, he had volunteered.

"Wouldn't miss this show for the world," he had pronounced, loudly and often. Which was all very admirable, if not very bright.

Housman, as always, maintained his air of grave deference as he now responded: "_Then will he strip his sleeves, and show his scars, and say, These wounds I had on Crispin's Day_."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Plonker!" muttered Blake, the next man along.

"No," replied Housman. "Henry V."

Crittendon set him straight at once: "No, actually, it's Shakespeare. Dashed stirring stuff, don't you think?"

"Yes, sir. Very inspiring."

"Just the ticket for times like this, what?" Crittendon went on. "I mean, when one is about to go into battle, a bit of heroic verse is just what's needed to buck you up."

Housman thought it prudent to disregard Blake's low-pitched, mordant response to this.

From the other side of Crittendon, young Lawrence piped up, his baby-blue eyes gleaming with mischief: "I know a good one, sir."

"Well, let's hear it," said Crittendon.

"_There was a young lady from Herne, Who could take it_…" Lawrence broke off, as the plane rocked violently in the grip of the atmosphere.

"I think we've all heard that one, Lawrence," observed Housman. "And we don't need to hear it again."

"I don't believe I've heard it." Crittendon had turned to face Lawrence, who gazed back with a sweet, guileless air. But Housman had caught the boy's eye, and he obeyed the silent command.

"I don't remember the rest of it, sir," he said. "But I think there was something about _cannons to the left of her_."

"Ah, yes. That sounds familiar." Crittendon subsided, but only briefly. "How about this one? _There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight…_"

"That's it. I'm gonna thump 'im," growled Blake into Housman's right ear.

"That'll earn you a court martial," Housman hissed back.

"They'll have to dig me out of the French countryside first."

Housman elbowed him in the ribs, and turned back to Crittendon, just in time to catch the moment when the train jumped the track: "_But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote…_ _Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do or…_" His voice suddenly faltered into uncertainty. "No, wait a minute, that's not right."

"Isn't that the one which ends up dancing with the daffodils, sir?" Lawrence interrupted in an innocent tone.

"Oh, good heavens, no. You're thinking about Keats. Damsel with a dulcimer, and all that."

"I know one about a damsel," said Lawrence, "and you won't believe what she does with her dulcimer."

"Erm… no, I don't think that's the same one," replied Crittendon.

Blake gave a splutter of laughter, and Housman had to bite his lip. "You seem to know a lot of poetry, sir," he remarked in an unsteady voice.

"I should jolly well think so. Years of repetition at school, that's the thing. I'll tell you this, chaps, it's all the time I spent repeating the same thing over and over which made me the officer I am today. That, and the playing fields, although I wasn't allowed sports. Chest trouble. Damned shame, really."

"Didn't you ever get them mixed up? The poems, I mean."

"Good heavens, no! Perfect recall, you know. It's a gift, Hopkins."

"Housman, sir."

"Hm, yes… As I was saying, perfect recall." Crittendon cleared his throat. "Though I'm blowed if I can remember how that one goes…" A tiny crease appeared between his eyebrows as he searched for the words learned by rote so many years ago. "Never thought, when I was a lad, that one day I would need to think about… Oh, well, not to worry. "

He pulled himself up abruptly, as if dismissing some unwelcome presence from his mind. "I expect we have time for one more before the drop zone. Any requests?"

A soft growl came from Blake: "I've got one."

But Housman nudged him into silence again, and drew Crittendon's attention elsewhere: "Red light's gone on, sir."

"Has it?" Crittendon squared his shoulders. "Well, _once more unto the breach, dear friends_." His voice broke a little at the end, as he took his place in line, with Lawrence in front and Housman directly behind him, ready to take the leap into whatever lay below: honour, or glory, or the endless silence in which, for some of them, glory and honour would find their resting place.

"I wish I could remember how it ends," murmured Crittendon, almost to himself.

The unexpected wistful note caught Housman's ear. He sighed softly. "_And England's far, and honour a name, But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks… _"

"_Play up!_" Crittendon raised his head. "_Play up! and play the game!_"

Lawrence sniggered. Blake uttered a groan. But Housman, as the light turned green, found himself smiling. However ridiculous Group Captain Crittendon might seem, he had one redeeming quality. When the time came, there was no doubt. Crittendon would play up, and play the game.

* * *

_Group Captain – because there are no colonels in the RAF._

_The works referenced above are:_

_W. Shakespeare, "Henry V" act IV scene iii, and act III scene i  
__Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "The Light Brigade"  
__Henry Newbolt, "Vita__ï__ Lampada"  
__William Wordsworth, "I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud (Daffodils)"  
__Samuel Taylor Coleridge (no, not Keats), "Kubla Khan"_

_Lawrence's limerick is entirely his own work, and I take no responsibility._


	3. The Point

"It is not at all as I remember."

"Did you say something, _Herr General_?" asked the driver, somewhat tentatively.

General Burkhalter did not reply, but the sight of his cold, expressionless eyes, reflected in the rear-view mirror in the morning twilight, would have been sufficient to discourage a hardier soldier than the one so recently assigned to his service. The boy's face went red, and he fixed his attention on the narrow unsealed road which ran along the clifftop.

_He looks about twelve_, thought Burkhalter. The soldiers were getting younger all the time; or maybe it was Burkhalter who was getting older. _When I was his age…_

His thoughts drifted into reminiscence; but try as he would, he couldn't find the memories of this place as it had been the last time he was here, a lifetime and two wars ago. All he could see in his mind's eye was what he knew was here now: massive concrete installations, gun emplacements and endless barbed wire.

_I will have to find my old sketchbook, when I get home_, he thought.

He gazed out of the window towards the sea, which remained shrouded in fog. Somewhere beyond that white, ephemeral wall, the enemy was preparing. Not that Burkhalter expected to see a massive fleet suddenly appear from the mist. The weather was unfavourable, and the conditions in the Channel too violent; and it was the opinion of the chiefs of staff – or at least, of the Führer, which came to the same thing – that the invading forces would strike in the Pas-de-Calais, not here. Under the circumstances, this was fortunate.

It was a point Burkhalter had used to advantage, in his discussions with General Reinhardt the previous day. His eyebrows lowered now, as he considered their meeting. He had gained the upper hand for now, but it had not been easy. Reinhardt, possessed of what he considered a brilliant idea, had clung to it with the stubbornness of desperation.

"It is a question of manpower," he had argued. "We must have the defences completed without further delay, but it cannot be done without a supply of labour. Now, you have under your control a plentiful supply of fit, healthy men who could be made available to fill the shortage."

"Prisoners of war."

"Why not? I fail to see…"

"As usual, my dear Reinhardt, you see only what you wish to see. Your brilliant idea is complete nonsense. Even if we set aside the Geneva Prisoner Of War Convention, using Allied soldiers to build defences against an Allied invasion would be foolish. Why give these men the opportunity to observe and report on the nature of our preparations? Or even to sabotage our efforts? Why give them the chance to escape and join forces with the Resistance? But by all means, Reinhardt, take your idea to the Field Marshall. I will be happy for you to take all of the credit … and the blame."

Just as he'd expected, Reinhardt had folded. Burkhalter had not even been forced to raise the one argument which, in his mind, clinched the matter. If the invasion should prove successful, he had no desire to be held accountable for any ill-treatment of the prisoners under his charge.

He should have been well on his way back to Hammelburg by now. But some odd whim had seized him when he realised how close he was to the beaches and cliffs he had visited and sketched, all those years ago. So here he was, taking a trip along the shores of memory, and he had never in his life been so disappointed.

"_Bitte, Herr General_," said the driver, "the road is very rough. Should we not go back?"

Burkhalter waved an impatient hand. "We will go a little further."

The way had diverged from the cliffs, and the sea was no longer visible. All he could see was a dull stretch of low-growing heath which extended towards the horizon, and in the distance, the dark, rising silhouette of the point which reared above the beach, surmounted by an indistinct structure which, obscured as it was by the mist, might have been some ancient monument rather than one of the casemates which guarded this section of the coast. Austere, threatening, yet strangely beautiful.

He felt a sudden compelling urge, such as he had not experienced in many years. "Stop the car," he ordered abruptly.

"Here, _Herr General_?"

"Of course, here, _Dummkopf_!"

The car skidded to a halt. The driver glanced at Burkhalter in the rear-view mirror, read the message in those heavy-lidded eyes and hastened to leave the car and open the door for the general to dismount.

"I wish to inspect the defences," said Burkhalter. "Wait here."

If the driver thought it was strange that the general would go on foot across the heath, carrying his briefcase, he did not dare say so. He watched as Burkhalter's heavy form faded into the mist, then relaxed, wondering whether he would have time for a cigarette before the lard-arsed old tyrant returned.

Burkhalter made his way between the low-growing gorse and erica until the edge of the cliff came into view, with the white-shrouded sea below. He looked around for some kind of seat, a rock or a fallen tree, but there was nothing of the kind anywhere around. Once upon a time, he would have thought nothing of sitting on the ground, but he was not a boy any more. Still, it seemed there was no choice. Uttering a series of groans and grunts, he manoeuvred his considerable weight to a sitting position; and once he'd recovered from the exertion, he opened his briefcase. Amongst the papers it contained was one document which would suit his purpose; a report from the Kommandant of Stalag 13. The last thing he wanted to do was read it, but each of its many pages had a perfectly blank reverse. He found a pencil, rested the briefcase on his legs as an improvised support, laid down the first sheet of Klink's report, and began sketching.

It was many years since he'd indulged in what he now pretended had been a childhood hobby, and he was delighted to find the lines still flowed easily from his fingers to the pencil, and from there onto the paper. Bold, strong strokes defined the cliff edge, with the scrubby seaside plants quickly indicated with a few rapid marks. He took his time over the outline of the point in the distance, but allowed the details to remain vague and menacing. Only when he was satisfied did he turn his pencil to the soft, undulating texture of the sea below, where the mist was starting to clear. Waves had never been easy; too fluid, too changeable to be convincingly drawn. He frowned unconsciously over his work, his eyes travelling back and forth from the sketch to the reality below.

So deep was his concentration that at first he did not notice the dark shapes which had emerged from the dissipating fog, and which his hand had faithfully reproduced on the paper in front of him. He stared at them in a daze, then looked up.

_Donnerwetter_!

Even then, he kept drawing. He had to capture this. There would never be another chance. He started on a second page, then a third. Only when the bombardment began, covering the approaching landing craft, did he come to his senses.

Breathless and lightheaded, he shoved his work back into his briefcase and struggled to his feet. For a few seconds he could not remember in which direction he would find his car; but then he heard a shout, and saw his driver approaching at a run.

"_Herr General…_ the invasion…."

"I know," snapped Burkhalter. "We must leave, now."

He almost fell into the back seat of his car. The driver flung himself behind the wheel and the car took off, the wheels sliding on the dirt road.

Burkhalter, panting for breath, clutched his briefcase to his chest. His heart was pounding so loudly, he was sure the driver could hear it above the noise of the shells falling all around.

They were good, these sketches, roughly done on scrap paper. Possibly the best he'd ever done, and certainly the most important. But if anyone ever found out what he had been doing, when the invasion began…

No, it must not come out. He could not burn them; instinctively he knew he could not. But he must keep them hidden where nobody would ever find them, at least until the war ended, one way or another.

His life depended on it.


End file.
